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CANZONE III. Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi. WHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURA. Green robes and red, purple, or brown, or grayNo lady ever wore,Nor hair of gold in sunny tresses twined,So beautiful as she, who spoils my mindOf judgment, and from freedom's lofty pathSo draws me with her that I may not bearAny less heavy yoke. And if indeed at times—for wisdom failsWhere martyrdom breeds doubt—The soul should ever arm it to complainSuddenly from each reinless rude desireHer smile recalls, and razes from my heartEvery rash enterprise, while all disdainIs soften'd in her sight. For all that I have ever borne for love,And still am doom'd to bear,Till she who wounded it shall heal my heart,Rejecting homage e'en while she invites,Be vengeance done! but let not pride nor ire'Gainst my humility the lovely passBy which I enter'd bar. [Pg 33]The hour and day wherein I oped my eyesOn the bright black and white,Which drive me thence where eager love impell'dWhere of that life which now my sorrow makesNew roots, and she in whom our age is proud,Whom to behold without a tender aweNeeds heart of lead or wood. The tear then from these eyes that frequent falls—HE thus my pale cheek bathesWho planted first within my fenceless flankLove's shaft—diverts me not from my desire;And in just part the proper sentence falls;For her my spirit sighs, and worthy sheTo staunch its secret wounds. Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts,To weary, wound myself,Each a sure sword against its master turn'd:Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed,For less direct to heaven all other paths,And to that glorious kingdom none can soarCertes in sounder bark. Benignant stars their bright companionshipGave to the fortunate sideWhen came that fair birth on our nether world,Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf,The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps,Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful windsEver o'ersway its head. Well know I that the hope to paint in verseHer praises would but tireThe worthiest hand that e'er put forth its pen:Who, in all Memory's richest cells, e'er sawSuch angel virtue so rare beauty shrined,As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth,Sweet keys of my gone heart? Lady, wherever shines the sun, than youLove has no dearer pledge. Macgregor.
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